


pitch black, pale blue

by 75hearts



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, Femslash, Gen, Languages, Númenor, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Female Character, Religious Conflict, Second Age, Textual Ghosts, i just. had a lot of emotions about númenor so i wrote this, so many original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 21:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: a very short and incomplete history of Númenor, as told by its women(or: four stories, set in various time periods from SA1556 to SA3319)





	1. and listen all ye families

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PercentError](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercentError/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Tar-Telperiën reads a biography of her great-grandmother, kisses a girl for the first time, and has awkward pillow talk with the woman she wishes could rule alongside her

Telperiën didn’t remember when she made her decision, but she remembered why.

She had been reading a biography of her great-grandmother, the first ruling Queen of Númenor. (She never said “only” when talking about Tar-Ancalimë. Even then, she had known that she was going to be the second, and then Tar-Ancalimë wouldn’t be the only one anymore. You shouldn’t build habits that you will have to break.)

This is what she read: Tar-Ancalimë was a good Queen, and proud, and loved her people fiercely. She neglected offshore interests in favor of protecting Númenor. She was raised with women only, and it is said that she grew bitter towards men due to the frequent absences of her father. She did not want to wed, but she did, eventually, in a loveless and angry marriage, to keep the crown.

This is what she decided: She admired her great-grandmother greatly, but she could not do that, not ever. If she did not want to marry, she would not. She would keep the crown with her own strength, or she would not be enough, and would lose it. But she did not think she could bear sacrificing her own happiness for a man.

Whenever this decision had been made, she stuck to it. Her resolve solidified in her soul, and she did not wed.

She thought often of her great-grandmother, raised with only women. For a long time, she did not know why she could not take her mind off of it.

She was the back of a shady bar in the fringes of Andúnië that she learned why. A girl with dark hair touched her hand and electricity thrummed through her and--oh, is _this_ what they were talking about--and she nodded a yes without even knowing what she was saying yes to and then suddenly they were kissing.

That night, she wrote her own biography, in her mind. Tar-Telperiën was a good Queen, and lived a great long life filled with naught but joy, and refused ever to marry a man and produce an heir. And then she imagined more nights like this, nights that would not be recorded in the biography, full of kisses that were soft and smelled of spices and flowery perfume, and she hugged her pillow and could not fall asleep for hours because her grin was too wide.

 

-

 

“Oh, Azruzimril--yes--fuck-- _Eru_ \--” Tar-Telperiën gasped before collapsing backwards.

Azruzimril moved up, then, to lay beside her. “I’m that good?” Her Sindarin was accented strongly with the cadences of a city girl who learned Adûnaic as a first language, but her smile was shyly genuine.

“ _Better_.” Tar-Telperiën’s grin was fierce as she gathered Azruzimril into her arms. “Oh, Azru, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Telpë.”

Tar-Telperiën kissed Azruzimril’s forehead. “I need to sleep.”

“And? Are you going to?”

“Of course not,” she said ruefully. “I’m going to lay here and toss and turn and debate whether I’m doing the right thing.”

“You’re terrible at pillow talk, you know.”

“If you wanted a woman who wouldn’t talk about politics, you should have thought of that before you _wooed the Queen_.” But she was smiling.

“I suppose so,” Azruzimril said. “So what is it?”

Tar-Telperiën sighed deeply. “Like I said. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t want to go down in history as _refused aid to people who needed it_. And we’re running out of space—there are so many _people_ here, we are filling up the island so _fast_ —and so many of them _want to leave_ —but.”

“But?”

“ _But_ I’m afraid for us. I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: failing my people, or my people failing me. What if I were to send aid until I am neglecting the people I am responsible for? What if I let people leave and they tear across Middle-Earth with more irresponsibility than I can even imagine? We have so many people, they are so incredible and I love them all so much, you know that.”

“But.”

“But we have _so many people_ and whenever you get that many people in one place they will not all be good and responsible all the time. And sometimes that’s okay, some of that’s even necessary—don’t make any progress if you don’t make any risks. _But_ it’s dangerous.”

“You’ve been saying _we_ this whole time, Telpë.”

That won a smile from Tar-Telperiën. “My apologies, _Tar-Eämírë_ , I didn’t realize you were unaware what _wooing the Queen_ meant.”

Azruzimril giggled a little, at that, and then grew quiet. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

“It would be so much easier if the West was empty,” she said suddenly. “Then we could explore there freely without fear of irresponsibility. Sometimes I stare at Avallonë and beyond and the sea-longing is almost more than I can take. We wouldn’t fear running out of room, and you’d be letting your people do as they pleased, and nobody there would need help. It’d be perfect.”

“A perfect world has no need of Queens,” Tar-Telperiën said, and then, almost defensively: “...I want it too. I do.”

“But.” Azruzimril’s voice was resigned. The word came out breathy, like a sigh that only decided too late that it wanted to be a word.

“Yes.”

Azruzimril rolled over to look up at Tar-Telperiën, then. Her voice was extraordinarily earnest. “Do you feel it too? The sea-longing? How do you refuse it?”

It took a long time for Tar-Telperiën to answer. When she did, her voice was soft. “I don’t feel it like you do. Not… Not like that. If I did, I. I don’t know if I would have been a good enough person to tell it no. But… Everything my people feel, I feel too, to one degree or another. As for how I ignore it—“ She kissed Azruzimril. “—that is how.”

Azruzimril kissed back and then nodded when they broke away, but her eyes were distant, as though they were fixed on something very far away. “You are not Tar-Ancalimë. You do not have to be known for isolationism if you do not want to be.”

“And you are not Tar-Eämírë, and the world we live on is not perfect. We make do. We always have; we always will.”

“We’ll get there, someday.”

“I truly do hope so.”

“We have to.” Azruzimril surprised even herself with the conviction that came into her voice before she stopped with an impressive yawn. “Sleep well, Tar-Telperiën.”

“Sleep well, Azruzimril. Tar-Eämíre.”

Neither of them slept well that night; but when they awoke restless, they found home in each other’s arms.

 

-

 

It is said that Tar-Telperiën was a good queen, and long-lived; and that she would wed with no man.


	2. to how the story goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which two women at a university interrupt a lecture to have an argument about politics

Handirion paced in front of the room. He was there to give a lecture on Númenórean history 1800-2500: Ciryatan, Atanamir, Ancalimon.

The place was packed full of students--mostly bright-eyed, excitable kids with a passion for learning. Eluilos was listening attentively, hair pulled back. She took diligent notes in near-illegible tengwar scribbles. Even without knowing her, a quiet intensity could be felt. Across the room from her, Lôminzil doodled cityscapes on her paper. If she had been listening at all, there was certainly no way of telling.

“Tar-Ciryatan. Born in 1634; took the crown in 1869; surrendered the sceptre in 2029; died, 2035. And his eldest son, Tar-Atanamir, often called the Great. Born in 1800; took the sceptre in 2029; ended his rule with his death in 2221. Can anyone” --he gestured to the room-- “tell me a similarity between them?”

Eluilos’s hand shot up, as always. Handirion waited a moment, to see if anyone else would volunteer. They didn’t. Lôminzil didn’t even look up. “Yes, Eluilos?”

Her voice was clear and strong; she had a bit of a smile as she answered. “They both rebelled against the proper timing of the Gift of Eru and brought the Shadow onto Númenor.”

That got everyone’s attention. Lôminzil stopped her drawing and looked straight at her. “With all due respect, professor,” she said, in carefully unaccented Sindarin, “that’s _bullshit_.”

If there was anyone in the room that hadn't been paying attention before, they were now.

Handirion sighed deeply and rubbed his brow. This was definitely above his paygrade. “The answers I had been looking for,” he said, “were as follows: they were both expansionist in regards to Middle-Earth; they both sought riches; and it is _speculated_ that they both wished to go West, though neither of them did.”

Lôminzil barely paused. “That’s all well and good, _professor_ ,” she said, without taking her eyes off of Eluilos, “but you cannot equate _choosing to live_ with _pressuring someone else to die_ and expect nobody will say anything. There is a _difference_ between killing someone and not wanting to lay down and die just because some people who don’t know anything about you think you’re too old to be a good ruler.” Her accent was slipping as she spoke faster and faster.

Eluilos’s eyes flashed. “Are you saying that Tar-Ciryatan was a murderer?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it! But he certainly did _pressure his father into death_ , and ‘causing the death of someone not fully consensually and before their time’ is certainly closer to murder than it is to Tar-Atanamir’s choice to live longer, which is why accusations of ‘rebelling against the proper timing of death’ are so vague as to be utterly meaningless and if you’re half as smart as you claim to be you would at least acquiesce that much. And as much as I agree with you that Tar-Ciryatan brought the Shadow, there are countless scholars, perfectly respectable in their fields--Pedir, Dílloth, Caladien, just to name a _few_ \--who claim that the Shadow didn’t come onto Númenor until Tar-Atanamir, and there are just as many scholars who claim that Tar-Atanamir did nothing to draw the Shadow, that it was all his father’s doing, and to posit _your specific interpretation_ of a topic as fact--in front of hundreds of students who won’t know any better--is utterly unintellectual. Not that a farm girl would even know what that means. Plus, your conception of _Eru’s Gift_ as though it was the universal, unbiased vocabulary for it--maybe _you_ wouldn’t know this, but there is a huge movement of revivalist Edain theologians who would point out that Finrod hadn’t talked directly to Eru any more than Andreth had. Have they translated Inzilkrassa’s _A Conception Of Death as the Marring of Arda_ into Sindarin yet? Maybe if they haven’t you’ll get some compassion for those of us who have to flounder through all the rest of the academic papers in a second language, instead of just assuming that we’re not smart enough ‘cause we weren’t raised in Sindarin. Or, hell, if you’ll denigrate anyone who doesn’t happen to speak your language, what about Canion, Rawiel, Glanviron! _Andreth’s Shadow or Eru’s Gift?: A History of Mortality_ is Sindarin-only. Believe whatever you want in your own time, but if you come into a classroom in the city and pretend that your controversial and unproven beliefs are fact in front of an audience, then don’t get so surprised when someone dares to challenge them.”

The classroom was silent with shock when Lôminzil stopped. Even Handirion stood with mouth agape. Out of everyone in the classroom, nobody had expected _Lôminzil_ to be the one to know theologians and historians. Handirion scoured his memory to figure out if he had even heard her _speak_ before this.

“If anyone wants to learn history, in your native language and _not_ hopelessly biased,” Lôminzil said in Adûnaic, “Find me after class.” And she packed up her bag and left.

Eluilos sat in the classroom with an anger and humiliation that reached down to her bones, wanting nothing more than to run after Lôminzil and punch her--nevermind that Eluilos had never thrown a punch in her life and would probably have injured herself as badly as the other girl, she could not bear the idea of just sitting there and _taking it_. But leaving after the other girl would be accepting surrender, and resorting to physical violence instead of proving her wrong would only bolster Lôminzil’s words. Instead, she plastered on a smile, even though all she really wanted was to crawl under her seat and hide. “I am so terribly sorry for the interruption, professor,” she said to Handirion. “Please continue with your lecture. I trust that, should you ever have an issue with my answers, you will amend them yourself, and not rely on students to issue corrections.”

Handirion sighed again. “Tar-Ancalimon. Born 1986. Received the sceptre 2221. Ruled for 165 years. Died in 2386. The time period of his rule is most notable not for his deeds but for the political climate of the time. Prior to Tar-Ancalimon, the primary political issue was isolationism in regards to Middle-Earth as opposed to interventionism, with the central examples being Tar-Aldarion the mariner and shipbuilder and Tar-Ancalimë who refused contact with Middle-Earth under any circumstances. Under Tar-Ancalimon, this changed; it had become widely accepted that interventionism and colonialism in Middle-Earth was better for Númenor, despite its cost on our resources, and as we started building ships with wood from overseas instead of from our own forests, the city/rural cultural divide centered in on different issues within politics. The primary political conflict under Tar-Ancalimon thus shifted from focusing on foreign affairs to the comparatively domestic matter of religion and friendship with the Eldar. This was the time during which the two political groups began to form which still divide us to this day: the King’s Men, a group that looked with a critical--some would say jealous--eye at the Eldar and their relations with us, and believed in holding onto life, and seeking ways to prolong it; and the Faithful, who maintained their friendship with the Eldar and the customs and worship taught to us by them, including the tradition of laying down life at the sight of old age, and recognizing it as a gift. For your homework tonight, you will write an essay on the causes of the division between the King’s Men and the Faithful, and the political, cultural, and demographic distinctions between the two groups in the present day. If anyone is feeling particularly charitable, feel free to inform Lôminzil of this assignment. Any member of the class who does not turn in either this essay or a doctor’s note will get a decrease in their score for this course.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “Farewell everyone, and I expect to see you all again soon.”

Eluilos took careful notes on every word he said. Lôminzil didn’t come back to class, the next day or ever again.


	3. nobody knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a Faithful girl learns her history, stops believing in God, and gets into fights

Ithilwen never spoke Sindarin, except at home.

“You’re allowed to, you know,” Elureth told her. “The bad King--Tar-Telemnar, Ar-Gimilzôr, whatever you want to call him--isn’t King anymore. And Tar-Palantir says it’s okay for people to speak whatever they want.”

“I know,” said Ithilwen.

“Then why do you always flinch when I talk in Sindarin with my friends?”

“Sometimes,” Ithilwen said carefully, “When you’ve been afraid of something for a very, very long time, it’s hard to stop being afraid of it. Even if the thing you’re afraid of doesn’t make sense anymore.”

“Like how I’m scared of the dark, even though you say there isn’t anything really evil in the world anymore, since the Elves killed Morgoth?”

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“Oh.” Elureth thought about that, for a bit. “What was so scary, about Tar-Telemnar?”

“He said nobody was allowed to speak Sindarin, ever, no matter what. If he found you speaking Sindarin, you’d get in big trouble. My parents had to teach me my name in secret, and I had to make sure all of my friends called me Niluêth, or else we’d all be in danger. He didn’t let the Eldar come to Númenor, ever, and he kept a very close eye out so that you couldn’t even do it in secret. If you did it anyway, he’d find you, and punish you. And--you know how we pray to Eru? That wasn’t allowed either, and we had to do it all in secret. These days, Tar-Palantir will celebrate Erukyerme with us, and Erulaitale, and Eruhantale, and we can all meet in public and pray and celebrate together, but when Tar-Telemnar was king, he didn’t, and if he found out that you did, he’d be very, very mad. I had to move, you know; I was born in the Andustar. But Tar-Telemnar was afraid that my family and I were evil, for liking the Elves and worshipping Eru, and so he made us move here instead. My family was very, very brave, and taught me Sindarin and the history of the Elves and how to pray to Eru, even though they had to keep it all a secret because they might get in trouble. So it’s very important that you learn that, too, and remember it, even though it’s not dangerous anymore.”

Elureth’s eyes were wide and solemn as she nodded. “So... I shouldn’t stop, even though it scares you sometimes. Because it’s important enough that you still spoke Sindarin even when it was really, _really_ scary.”

“Exactly. Go play now, Bainiel is waiting outside and you’ve already kept her long enough.”

 

-

 

Elureth moved to the city for a job. She was no architect, but she was strong, and could move heavy stone, and understood well how to use pulleys and rope; and she worked there for many years creating new buildings and roads. Even with the colonies in Middle-Earth, there seemed to never be enough space in Armenelos.

She had to learn Adûnaic, there; not many people spoke Sindarin, not like they did in Rómenna. She managed, as well as she could, but her accent was not kind to her. The city had better cooks than home did, but worse food, and most of it unfamiliar.

She celebrated and prayed with the Faithful of Armenelos, of which there were a few, even in those days; but as the days passed, she found herself struggling with what they said. _Under Tar-Palantir_ , they said, _Eru has forgiven us. In the past, there was great death, earthquakes and tidal waves, due to His fury and our sin; but now that we can celebrate Him once again, He brings redemption to us all._ As she saw it, she had done nothing that needed forgiveness, and her mother hadn’t either; and still in the streets she saw disease and repaired buildings broken when the earth shook. If Eru existed at all, she concluded eventually, with a vague unease, He had abandoned them. And though Tar-Palantir gave speeches about friendship with the Eldar, still no Elven ships came from the West.

Everyone had different stories. Some people agreed with her mom, that it had been Ar-Gimilzôr who had banned the speaking of Sindarin; others claimed it was Ar-Adûnakhôr. Some said that the natural disasters and disease and misery had improved, under Tar-Palantir; some said it had remained the same; some say it had gotten worse. And still Elureth stood on her balcony or dragged stones through the streets for work and everywhere she saw the world Marred. Unforgiven. Her resentment did not fade; it simmered inside her every day.

Her prayers changed, for a time. Instead of thanking Eru, she ranted at Him, asking Him why, why had He sent so much suffering for the people who had been nothing but faithful to Him, why does nothing anyone say make sense, why had He abandoned them.

Eventually, she decided she didn’t believe in Eru, not really; and besides, if He did exist, He was doing a pretty terrible job of it and so she didn’t particularly need his help anyways. But she kept praying to Him, because her mom had said it was important and she missed her language and the makeshift church they had traveled to Rómenna for. She dressed in her best white clothes for the Three Prayers, and adorned herself in garlands, and at the summit of the Meneltarma she was utterly silent and thankful that she could stand there when her ancestors could not.

Not everyone in the city was kind to her. They laughed at her accent and her strange prayers; people would come up to her while she worked to taunt her about the greatness of Ar-Gimilzôr, and to beg for another ruler like him, to put her back in her place. At work, she bit her tongue and continued on, most of the time; but when she wasn’t working, she was fond of well-placed kicks. She had the muscles of someone who dragged stone for a living; she was never harassed twice by the same person. Names curled in her wake--Erubên, Azgarphêr. She tried not to hear them, for the most part. When a coworker tried to give her a nickname in Adûnaic, she socked him in the jaw without thinking. “Sorry,” she said, voice light but eyes full of warning. “But my name is Elureth. Okay?” And he, rubbing his jaw, had agreed.

In truth, when she heard them, she thought only of her mother. Ithilwen, who kept her name a treasured secret, who still on bad days flinched to hear it. “Niluêth,” she would correct her daughter, in a frightened whisper, eyes darting to judge if anyone had heard; and Elureth was forced to remind her mother that it was okay, that she was allowed to be Ithilwen now, that Sindarin was spoken again in streets and schools.

Her Adûnaic got better, especially her swear words, but she never lost her accent. Her prayers changed, when she stopped believing, but she never stopped praying. At home, she spoke Sindarin to herself, just to make sure she would never forget. Her grandparents had risked everything for this, for their descendants to speak Sindarin in the streets and celebrate the Three Prayers with the King; it was her job to make sure that their nights, spent teaching Ithilwen letters and words and names and prayers, were not in vain.

In time, she named a child: Auriel, daughter of the morning sun. They lived in the city, and so Auriel spoke Adûnaic from almost as soon as she could speak, with the accent of a native, and did not mind when her friends mangled her name; but her first word was not Adûnaic.

“ _Emig_!” Auriel cried, as an infant. “Mommy!”

Elureth beamed at Auriel, and took her in her arms, and told her stories of Tar-Telemnar and Ithilwen, and recited the prayers to Eru she had learned as a child, and sung Elvish lullabies for her, and they were happy enough, for a time.


	4. and nobody knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a young girl starts a diary and never finishes it

Dear Diary,

My name is Adûnaphêl!!! It is the year 3319 of the 2th Age. I go to school in Ar-Minalêth in Anadûnê. I do not know what diaries already know about the world so I will tell you EVERYTHING!!!!!! The king is Ar-Pharazôn. The teacher said he is golden, wich is good because thats kind of my favorite color. My parents are very nice. They sometimes make me eat gross food and I get mad at them but there nice anyway. My friends are nice, too. Today we went for a walk. The trees were nice, (but it was VERY WINDY. My hair went in my eyes.) My favorite food is figs.

You are a very pretty diary. You are yellow and that is my favorite color.

 

Adûnaphêl blinked. What else were you supposed to write in diaries? She wasn’t sure. She had already told it all about herself and her day, and she gave it a compliment, because her parents said that it was very nice to give compliments.

“Adûnaphêl!” her mom called. “Time for dinner!”

She set the diary down, and promised it that she would write in it again tomorrow.

 

-

 

The next day, Númenor drowned. They wrote, in history books Ages later, that it was justice from Eru. The Faithful had all evacuated, all besides Tar-Míriel; and it is said that none of the King’s Men of those days were blameless.

Adûnaphêl’s diary was lost, of course; lost in the fires, or sunk to the bottom of the ocean with her and her parents and friends, we do not know. It was not unique. Númenor had many children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kiki this is your fault. you aren't even IN this fandom. this is short compared to a lot of my stuff but it was SO MUCH WORK. so many names and languages and dates to keep straight and they’re almost all OCs anyway. i have so many opinions about númenórean history and politics and religion now and i didn't even get to include half of them in here. also i’m sad about the fall of númenor but that’s not new.  
> (if you are also sad about the fall of númenor hmu and we can be sad together)


End file.
